Friend as A Verb
by Raggedy Dama
Summary: John and Sherlock one shots. The duo's growing friendship and their interactions between/during series.(Ch.5:Not a machine: 'To John, Sherlock Holmes was many things and an affectionate man was not one of them.')
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**AN: This is my first Sherlock fanfic and while I don't have anything against Johnlock (I actually like it quite a lot) this is a NO SlASH story…at least yet. So here we go.**

'_The one time John doesn't go with the detective is when Sherlock gets himself shot.'_

**Chapter 1: Drag behind**

"And what induced him to strike his wife?" Lestrade asked patiently, but John could tell that his fists were itching for some kind of release.

"Well, she had her back to him. The frying pan was handy and the back door open, so he thought he'd take a chance." Explained Sherlock, while removing his gloves.

John left them at that and the last thing he saw was the detective inspector's clenched jaw and his flat mate's annoyed look. He snorted to himself, well knowing the amount of insults that were likely to be used.

"Told you to find yourself some hobby." He turned his head and was met with Donovan's signature smile. He greeted her politely and continued to collect his medical supplies, wisely deciding not to comment on what she said.

"I understand that you were a soldier and all…" she said hesitantly, but John shook his head. He had had this same talk with her for more times than he could count now.

"He is my friend," the good doctor said, glancing at the still arguing Sherlock and Greg, who were close to killing each other. "And I like solving crimes with him."

"He is Sherlock Holmes." She remarked indignantly. "He is always ahead of his game, while you" she gestured at John "just drag behind."

He blinked at her. If this conversation had made John slow down his packing, now he stopped completely. Since the incident with the cabbie that happened a few months ago, John had grown to be very irritated with this woman. He could see why Sherlock disliked her so much. She was very nosy and had decided it her job to keep John away from the consulting detective. He was used to decline her remarks as gently as possible and not paying her mind. But she had never been this straightforward and John could feel himself gradually losing his temper.

Whatever he was about to say, had died in his throat as his flat mate all but leaped in front of them out of nowhere.

"Come along, John." Was the detective's natural saying, as he started walking towards the door.

"Admit it." Sally said quietly and also disappeared out of his sight.

Trying to ignore the many thoughts that were flooding his mind, John went to catch up with the consulting detective. They were crossing a street, when Sherlock began fixing his scarf. The good doctor waited for the usual discussion they always had after leaving a crime scene…when Sherlock would explain to John what exactly had happened. This time the detective broke the silence for completely other reasons, though.

"Admit what?" he asked, while raising a hand and attempting to catch a cabbie. The good doctor was a bit taken aback by the question and looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"Donovan, John." He said. "What did she want you to admit?"

"Oh, that…Nothing. Nothing specular." John recovered quickly, briefly wondering just how much of the conversation he had heard. "Just the usual. People assuming that we're a couple." He lied instead, composing a smile.

The taller man turned to look at him at last and his gaze was so intense that not for the first time John thought that he might be reading his mind. However, he soon relaxed visibly, as Sherlock cast him a smile of his own and they got into the car.

A week had passed since the crime scene and John found staying in the flat almost unbearable. Sherlock was still struggling with the case and driving the good doctor insane with his intolerable behavior. They knew who the murderer was, but there was no evidence whatsoever to hold against him and the fact that the said killer had fled almost magically, was not helping at all.

John sighed while sipping from his mug of tea and thinking of ways to keep himself busy with that evening. Maybe he should call Sarah. He hadn't had the chance to see her for awhile and today it seemed like a great opportunity to take his mind off things. Yes, he would call Sarah.

He picked up his phone and walked out of the kitchen, dropping his mug into the sink. In the living room he came across with the pacing detective and half wished that he would too far in his mind palace to notice him. He honestly didn't have the heart to stumble on him during one of his foul moods.

John took a step back as Sherlock spun around to face him almost the same instant he entered the room and he noticed that the genius was looking comparably less miserable.

"Ah John," he said pleasantly, "I think I might be close to finding out his location. I only need to check something…" he trailed off, taking in John's appearance and frowned.

"Where are you going?" he asked. The doctor wanted to say something about the case, but chose not to.

"I'm seeing Sarah." He replied casually, putting on his coat.

"Why?" he sighed at Sherlock's question.

"Because, Sherlock," he grabbed his keys and stuffed them into his pocket. "That's what people do. Go on dates. Have fun." He was not liking where this conversation was going.

"I know what a date is, John," he rolled his eyes. "I mean, don't you want to see the man finally caught? Could be dangerous, you know."

Upon hearing the key phrase, John would usually stop any objections he might have had. But this time his mind drifted back to the latest conversation he had had with Donovan. And maybe it was the exhaustion, the lack of events or both, that made John speak more harshly than he intended to.

"Why, maybe I have better things on my mind." He said and walked right past him.

"Oh?" If Sherlock was somehow affected by his tone, he was doing a great job at hiding it.

"Well, if you find it worth wasting your time on such a dull thing as a date, rather than coming with me…" he said eventually.

"Yes, Sherlock!" John snapped, "It is bloody worth it!" And with that he strode out of the front door, closing the door after him with a loud thud.

It had taken John less than ten minutes to cool off and now he was already walking back to Baker Street. He wondered why he had let Sally's words get to him that way. He hadn't meant to raise his voice or say all those things at all. To Sherlock out of all people.

John wasn't sure why he had snapped in the first place. Maybe because he knew that there was some truth in her words. He was never of much use during cases, yet he never failed to show up with the detective, no matter what. He pursed his lips into a tight line. Maybe he was just scared to admit that he depended on Sherlock, just as the later depended on murders?

He fished out his keys and opened the door swiftly. If he was lucky and the detective wasn't sulking on the couch, he might even try to apologize. But to his surprise he found their flat empty. There were no traces of his flat mate anywhere.

John frowned. Where could he possibly be? He thought about asking Mrs. Hudson but then remembered that Sherlock must have had figured out the hiding place of the criminal by now. And suddenly he had this ludicrous idea that Sherlock might have gone to track him down alone.

Hopefully the man had had enough sense to call the yard. The doctor started searching the bottom of his flat mate's desk just to make sure and cursed under his breath when he noticed a certain item missing. Hadn't had sense then. John went to fetch his own gun, while dialing Lestrade's number.

The man in the coat grunted and clenched his eyes shut as a searing pain spread through his side. How could he have miscalculated so little? _'Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!' _he thought.

Sherlock forced his eyes open and looked at his bloodied shirt, then up at the smirking face of the man in front of him. He tried to stand up, only to hiss in pain and fall down harder. The wound was numbing his senses. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak…he couldn't _think._ He watched helplessly as the other man aimed the gun at him once again, but he knew that this time he would not make it.

A shot was heard, something heavy toppled to the ground and Sherlock, opening his eyes, didn't understand why he was still alive. He could hear sounds of sirens in the distance, he was able to make out the approaching forms of people.

"Sherlock!" somebody shouted. The voice…so achingly familiar, but he couldn't figure out who… Now somebody was kneeling beside him, turning and laying him onto his back and whispering to him something, he couldn't make out. And him Sherlock recognized to be the person who had called out his name earlier.

He felt obliged to say something, to assure the other that he was fine, but he could feel his consciousness starting to fail him. He blinked, but all he saw was the messy picture of the man bent in his direction. The edges of his vision were becoming blurrier and he eventually passed out.

Sherlock stirred and inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered open and he took in his surroundings. How long had he been out? He was definitely not in that dark alley anymore.

For once the sight of a hospital room was not so unpleasant to the detective. He tried to recall the events of the other day that were still rather cloudy to his mind. He only knew that he had been rescued just in time.

And then he finally took notice of the sleeping figure on the chair beside his bed. Sherlock smiled softly. John…Brave, loyal John. Of course he would have found him. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he had been secretly counting on that.

He moved, trying to sit up, but he instantly felt a pang of pain on his now bandaged side and groaned. It didn't hurt as it had earlier, but it was still painful nonetheless.

"Easy now." A voice said soothingly and Sherlock jerked his head, meeting his flat mate's concerned face. He hadn't realized that John was awake.

John put one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and another under his forearm, helping him into a sitting position.

"Thanks." He said hoarsely, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. The good doctor immediately retrieved a glass of water and held it up to him. The detective drank greedily, enjoying the slight coldness of it.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, after putting the empty glass away.

But Sherlock didn't answer.

"John, your date…" he said with a straight face that surprised them both. The former soldier gaped at the detective, that looked paler than usual. Very suddenly he had the urge to punch him.

"Shut up, you idiot!" he found himself saying instead.

Sherlock smirked to himself. He didn't miss the affection in John's voice. The good doctor tried to keep his composure as unforgiving as possible, but he soon snorted at the ridiculousness of it all, with Sherlock laughing as well.

"Nice shot, by the way." Sherlock said later, an odd twinkling in his eyes.

John's expression softened and he smiled, remembering the first time the detective had said that to him. He gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze.

"Sleep. You need to rest." He told him professionally. The detective nodded with a small yawn and carefully made himself comfortable in the hospital bed.

"Stay?" he mumbled sleepily, all energy now drowned out of him.

"I will." John murmured. " I will stay."

**AN: A bit long, eh? Anyway, let me know what you think and if I should continue this. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters...sadly.**

**AN: Hello and thank you for your good responses. I already have a few chapters ready so I'll be updating sooner. About this chapter...there's an OC, a sassy John Watson and a few cases mentioned. Specifically 'The Aluminum Crutch', which you can read about in John Watson's blog(that's where I found it). Enjoy.**

**Chapter 3: Old school**

_Please. -SH_

_No, Sherlock. -JW_

_Jooohn. -SH_

_I said, no. -JW_

_Why is it even so important to you? -JW_

_It is not. I just find it convenient if you come. -SH_

_Sherlock, I can't. I have patients. -JW_

_Boring. -SH_

_Well, some of us have responsibilities, you know. -JW_

_Surely you can interview them without me this time. -JW_

_I'll remove the head from the fridge. -SH_

_Continue... -JW_

_The fingers from the cupboard? -SH_

_And no experiments on the kitchen table. -JW_

_For a month. -JW_

_A week. -SH_

_A month. -JW_

_Fine! -SH_

_Fine. I'm on my way. -JW_

John huffed as he started making his way to their front door.

"Were you going to mention that the so called client was actually your classmate?" he mused, glancing briefly at the detective sited on the couch.

"No." Sherlock answered, raising an eyebrow. "Why? Does it matter?"

John shook his head with a sigh.

"No. I suppose, it doesn't." he said and turned the doorknob.

The door opened and it revealed a tall, dark haired man in a fine, black suit. He smiled politely at John.

"Good morning." he said as they shook hands, "John Watson, right? I'm Richard Brown. Sherlock must've mentioned about me..."

"Yes. Yes, that he did." John nodded, casting the detective a knowing look and inviting Richard in.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes not making to move from his seat. The man, John noticed, wasn't bothered by it in the slightest. In the contrary. He gracefully made his way to the couch he was offered to sit on and didn't do so much as look at his former classmate.

"How's life, Sherly?" he asked instead of greeting, with a sly look on his face.

John cleared his throat to keep himself from laughing. _Sherly_. He was so going to throw that at his flat mate's face later.

Sherlock pursed his lips, clearly annoyed. This was going to be a long day.

As it turned out, Richard Brown was a lawyer and a good one at that. John tried to look interested as the man talked about his multiple houses in various parts of London and his recent trip to Italy. But other than his obvious bottled up ego, Watson found the man quite decent.

He payed no mind to Sherlock's tenseness, taking it as his flat mate's usual dislike for people.

Thinking that the man would appreciate to have a chance to talk to the detective, John, being the ever sensible flat mate he was, offered the guest some tea.

He headed to the kitchen, as Sherlock regarded him with a dark look.

John shook his head to himself. He couldn't figure this man out...even after a year of living together. Nothing in their life was happening in the easy, normal way. Sherlock's manipulative texts for example.

Why in the world, did he have to make up a whole story just to get John to come home. You see, because some schoolmate was coming over. Frankly speaking, his flat mate was an absolute dream.

John glanced at the two and frowned. Sherlock seemed even more uncomfortable than before he had left them. His jaw was clenched and he was tapping his foot continually. While his classmate seemed not at all affected by this attitude.

The good doctor came back with the tea a few minutes later. He hadn't heard what they were talking about, but they were having this conversation when he entered the room.

"And what about your brother, who was trying so hard to get a government job," the man asked, curiously, "What is he doing now?"

"Nothing." replied Sherlock. "He got the job."

Richard chuckled at the answer, but it was a bit off to John's liking.

"Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson." he said later, turning his attention to John.

"I believe it is not an easy thing to have this nutter for a flat mate." Again that phony laugh. John very much wanted to believe that the insult was in a friendly nature.

"He was so unsociable back then...at school." Richard continued, "We could hardly believe it was him on all those magazines."

John blinked at the man sited in front of him. Had he always had that nasty grin on his face?

He opened his mouth to speak, but their guest wasn't done yet.

"He has always been strange. An outsider." the lawyer crossed his arms in a business like manner.

"And what now? A consulting detective. An Internet Phenomenon." He cast them another half smile.

"Don't get me wrong, but this science of deduction..." the man snorted in disgust, "Seems like a mere trick to me."

John's mouth hung open in surprise. What was this man playing at? He subconsciously waited for the detective's witty remarks. But when none came, he turned to look at Sherlock and noticed the hurt and unfocused expression on the other's face. That did it.

"A trick?" he questioned in disbelief, an odd edge in his voice that made the detective's head snap in his direction.

"What are you even..." but he was cut off by Richard.

"No, no. Don't think I'm accusing you in having anything to do with it." he assured hurriedly.

"In fact I find your blog very intriguing. 'The Six Thatchers', 'The Speckled Blonde', 'The Aluminum Crutch'...Especially the aluminum crutch." he sipped from his cup. "So very complex...I nearly lost my track of thoughts a few times. Though, no matter how fascinating it seemed, I couldn't quite believe it.

"I don't think you under-.." John tried again, but he was interrupted with a wave of a hand.

"Let me explain." he said calmly, "I knew that man-Matthew Michael. Not an outstanding person, I admit, but a rather decent bloke. And not a bad actor actually..."

"Oh yes, Matthew Michael was a very good actor." the doctor snapped sarcastically surprising everybody in the room. "There was just this minor drawback of him trying to provoke his colleagues into smuggling others(including himself) with a crutch."

That seemed to silence the lawyer for awhile. John was rather fed up with him and didn't notice the awestruck look on Sherlock's face.

"And this man..." he continued, pointing at the detective. Sherlock, guessing the good doctor's intentions, opened his mouth to speak up, but John silenced him with a look.

"This man you called a nutter. He is a genius. A great man. A great flat mate. And a great friend." he pronounced every word without pausing for a second. By the time, Sherlock was gawking at him as if he had grown a second head.

"_And_...he is the most extraordinary man I've ever met and _you_ will ever wish to be!" John stopped to take a very much needed breath. The room was filled with an awkward silence.

"Well..." Richard said slowly, clearing his throat, but John didn't give him a chance to continue.

"_Well,_" he said, "I don't mean to be rude, but if this is all, I shall ask you to leave."

The good doctor glanced at his watch and turned to his flat mate.

"We have an appointment, remember? About that case." John said, giving him a knowing look.

Sherlock, looking much like a confused puppy, nodded distractedly and sprung to his feet.

For a man, who could so unceremoniously insult somebody, Richard Brown could take hints.

"Right," he said, also getting up. "i shall go then."

The doctor walked the man to the door and after a yet another awkward silence, Richard said.

"It was...umm...nice meeting you." he forced a smile. "Both of you." A quick goodbye and John closed the door, suppressing a sigh.

He looked at his friend, properly now. Truth be told he was slightly unnerved by the fact that Sherlock almost hadn't said anything so far. And even a bit worried. The detective was still standing beside the sofa, his eyebrows kitted in concentration, very much like when he's trying to solve some kind of a puzzle. A foreign emotion showing on his face and a battle going on inside of him.

John smiled despite himself. This man really had the social skills of an eight year old and was now probably trying to figure out what had happened.

"You alright?" he asked after awhile. But the detective was too deep in thoughts to hear him.

"Sherlock?" he tried again.

"Hmm?" the taller man responded absentmindedly. "Yes...yes, of course. I'm fine." he answered with his palms folded under his chin.

The doctor nodded shortly and was about to call it a day, when Sherlock spoke in an uncharacteristic weak voice.

"John..." he said, barely above a whisper, "That thing..." he inhaled sharply. "What you...did earlier..."

His flat mate shook his head, gently.

"Think nothing of it, really..."

"No, John..." Sherlock swallowed visibly. "That...Nobody has ever done that for me."

The look on John's face softened and he smiled fondly. The man wasn't bluffing then...In Baskerville. When he said that he had only one friend.

Had Richard Brown been the reason that Sherlock was so insistent he left his duties and came home? Because he didn't want to be left alone with the person who had obviously been bullying him at school?

It was sad that this man had probably never had anybody to stand up for him. But at the same time John Watson felt honored and even lucky that _he_ had been able to grow and have this effect on him.

Besides brotherly affections...it was incredibly satisfying having someone, who despised almost all of the human race, like you.

"As I said...it was nothing." John reached out and put a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder.

"That's what friends do."

Sherlock seemed to consider him for a moment and then smiled. But it was not that smile with which he was used to talking to his clients, to the yard or to Mycroft. No, this was a small, warm grin, that he had kept for one John Watson. His friend.

**AN:My story here has a moral, you see. Stop the bullies.**

**SO...shall I continue?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. **

**AN: Hello and thank you to everyone for reading, following and reviewing this story. It really means a lot to me. So here's a little crack\fluff fic!:)**

**Chapter 3 : Lost without my hobbit**

"You know John, this movie was not all that bad actually." Sherlock said, as he moved to stretch his arms. "I expected it to be...duller."

The good doctor rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen.

"Well at least you haven't fallen asleep this time." he put the kettle to boil and called out to his flat mate.

"Want some tea?"

"Mm-hm" Holmes nodded and fixed his gaze on the former soldier.

As the consulting detective observed his best friend with the greatest interest, John took his time fetching two mugs. Only when stepping to the cupboard did he notice Sherlock's intense stare.

"What?" he asked puzzled at the look on his friend's face. As he didn't get an answer straight away(as predicted) John shook his head and turned back to deal with the kettle.

"You look like the hobbit." Sherlock remarked suddenly, a small grin playing on his lips. John stopped in his tracks.

"Excuse me?" he questioned.

"Right..." the dark haired man stood up and walked into the kitchen as well, "Baggins...You look just like Bilbo Baggins." he started smirking playfully.

"Really Sherlock?" Watson sighed in annoyance. "How old are you...five?"

"No, I'm serious." he pressed. "You both are not so very tall," John pressed his lips into a tight line at the comment, making the detective's smile broaden. "not so very bright..."

"You're clearly enjoying this, aren't you?" the doctor asked pathetically, trying to change the theme.

"...almost always grumpy," Sherlock ignored him and blocked the other's way still. "and complaining about the smallest things..."

"Fine. I get it. I look like a hobbit. Thank you very much. Here's your tea." he all but pushed the mug into the detective's hands and made his way to the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Bed. You'd might want to sleep too. It's half past one." he then added a quick goodnight, before vanishing into his room and leaving the detective alone to his thoughts, slight disappointment shown on his face.

The next two days didn't go better for Bilb-phew...John. And all thanks to his genius-but-constantly-pain-in-the-arse-friend, as he made sure not to miss a single chance to mention something about that bloody hobbit. Bilbo this, Bilbo that. It was already taking all of John's self control not to snap at him, while Sherlock found it mildly amusing to watch his partner like that. All seamed bearable until...a certain case rolled around.

"Very interesting..." the detective mumbled, looking around once again, taking in and noting as many details as possible.

"I wouldn't say so..." Lestrade interrupted indifferently, "This must be suicide. No evidence found. No traces of force either."

He then gestured towards a small window-like opening on the roof.

"And for the record...even if it was a murder, than how in the world did the intruder get in through this space? How small should one be to even consider getting in this way?"

The comment subconsciously caught Sherlock's attention, who was observing the corpse at the moment.

"I wonder..." he agreed in a very odd voice, making the DI's eyebrow rise.

John turned his head at the fine detective, only to find him smirk in his direction and lower his gaze back to the body. John's fists clenched as an instinct. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and finally made up his mind.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" he gritted angrily. Sherlock looked at him sheepishly.

"I didn't say anything." he said simply.

"You didn't have to!" the good doctor snapped. "And if you do so much as mention that bloody creature again, I don't know what I'll do with you!"

At the moment it seemed that the army veteran had lost all of his public senses. He couldn't care less that they were at a crime scene, or that Lestrade was still there, watching them with an amused expression on his face, or that a few medics had turned to look at them.

"I..." the curly haired man started but didn't get to say more as he was interrupted by his flat mate.

"No, Mr. Holmes. Enough! I've had enough with that hobbit for a lifetime. The last 48 hours I all but listened to how oh so many resemblances I have with _'Mr. Baggins'_!" he spitted out. "I know that I don't have the brightest personality and certainly am not the tallest person, but I'm losing my sanity,for heaven's sake!"

John rubbed his temple tiredly. Sherlock frowned.

"Actually, I wanted to te-" he was cut off once again by the doctor's wave of hand.

"Don't...please. I think I'm having a migraine."

The detective nodded half heartily and left to check on for any suspicious looking objects found in the room.

"Does seem like a suicide, really." John mumbled. Lestrade nodded.

"I know. Do tell your friend over there. He just won't drop this, will he?"

The doctor sighed and shrugged.

"You know him. Every case is like a shining lighthouse in the bay of boredom for him...You don't just expect him to drop this."

The inspector chuckled heartily and John went to pick up his medical environment, stuffing them into his bag.

"I don't think you still need me here?" he asked tiredly. "I need to get back to the hospital, tell Sherlock to call when he's finished, it's his turn to do the groceries."

Lestrade nodded and hesitated, before saying suddenly.

"You know...no offense...but you do look a lot like that hobbit."

He was hardly holding back his laughter as John groaned in frustration and left the room without a further look.

Of course it would really be ridiculous to think that Sherlock would ever buy anything, but some weird stuff for his experiments. So John bought the groceries as usually, ignored his very-annoying-lately-flat-mate's messages and now was making his way back home. The detective must've snapped out of his thoughts at some point and noticed that John wasn't there or needed something to be passed from his coat pocket.

As John entered their flat, he could hear a sigh from their leaving room. Carefully not looking at the source of the sound, he walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge to put his carryings away. And his eyes widened at the sight of their refrigerator full of food of any kind. Had the crazy tempered man really bought something...edible?

"You haven't been answering your phone." John heard the familiar baritone from the other room.

"Lestrade said you went to the hospital...I have done the groceries, but I see you've bought something as well."

John Watson said nothing and went to remove his jacket.

"How's the case going?" he asked casually.

Sherlock looked up from the book he was holding and responded.

"Boring. It seems the lady had indeed committed suicide."

John gave him a curt nod and was about to walk upstairs when another sigh stopped him.

"John..." now the detective had his attention. He raised a brow, for him to go on.

"I didn't mean...to insult you or..." the younger man's eyebrows kitted together and he clapped his hands together, putting his book aside. It was obvious that even a slight amount of emotions was already hard for Sherlock.

"If I...had somehow made you feel uncomfortable or...affected you by my words: I apologize." he said in a low but steady voice, keeping his gaze fixed on his shoes.

"But you know John, I never really got to mention the most important things you had in general with him..."

John's high expectations at a possible apology started lowering and he could already feel disappointment wash over him, when the taller man continued.

"In the kitchen you interrupted me when I was about to tell you what I had always thought...or rather known about you. That like Baggins, you have a very kindly soul, John...are brave at heart and loyal to the people you care about."

The good doctor was stunned at the sincereness of Sherlock's expression and was about to react, when the detective continued.

"Good thing, I'm one of them." he said with a soft smile on his lips."I'd be lost without my hobbit."

John chuckled lightly and turned back to the detective completely. He swallowed visibly and tried to keep his thoughts in line. It was the first time, he heard his flat mate tell any kind of compliment to him or anyone at all. Heck he was apologizing!

"I..." the doctor struggled for words of any good, and in the end he said something, he knew he would mean in every aspect and meaning there was in the dictionary.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He knew that one day the same detective would mock him for his lack of intellectual choice of words and claim it all to be useless sentiments, but right there, right at the moment it seemed the very right thing to say.

The great detective was slightly taken aback at the words. He couldn't remember when was the last time somebody had thanked him for anything. He wanted to tell John, that he was being a girl, that it was nonsense thanking friends for something that was certainly the truth.

But then again, something at back of his genius mind was telling him that John was hardly thanking him for his apology, no. It was that kind of thank you, which said 'I'm glad you're a part of my life.'

And Sherlock found himself smiling warmly at his only friend and saying.

"You're welcome, John. You are very welcome."

The good doctor smiled as well and making up his mind, went and sat on the couch across from the detective's. Sherlock threw a final glance at his flat mate, before taking his book back into his hands.

And so they sat there, devouring the peace of the night, a silent understanding between the both.

**AN: Liked it? No? Let me know. **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: A massive thank you to everyone reading this so far and I really appreciate the reviews that you have left. *hugs ya all*. So yeah, here's another chapter, a bit angsty( very angsty, didn't you read the summery? lol). Alright there is also fluff in the end. Well, here we go. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, obviously. **

**Chapter 4: The Parting Glass**

"I hate to say this, Mr. Holmes, but the patient hasn't made any progress so far." A man that was wearing white clinical robes, explained calmly. "He still hasn't shown any signs of identifying anything that had or might have had even the slightest appearance in his life. Well…you're mostly aware of his condition already. There's no change whatsoever, when you're not with him."

Sherlock nodded distractedly, not really looking up from the floor.

"But there's a relief, you know…" the professor added, after a minute of hesitation. "He feels more comfortable around you now. And he actually asked the nurse if you were here, yesterday. "

The consulting detective threw a glance at the man, but stayed quiet.

"Although, he's only this relaxed with you, I think it is for the better if he's released from the hospital as soon as possible. Getting back to his old lifestyle and normal routine will most likely effect his mind positively and we might have the smallest chance of him remembering things."

When he didn't get any answers from the taller man, the doctor sighed.

"Sherlock, right?" he said, "I'm sorry, but we've done all that was in our powers. Things like this take time. Sure, I admit that it all would've been a great deal easier, had he not have all those nightmares…but he's no longer in a state to do himself any harm." Then the professor made an awkward attempt to pat the detective on the shoulder, which earned him a raised eyebrow.

"He'll be fine. He just needs somebody to stick with him." The man assured confidently. Sherlock looked at him sincerely and nodded.

"Can I see him?" he asked, but it sounded more like a demand.

"Of course. You know his room."

"Hello, John." Sherlock called with a small smile, as he entered a room, which was completely painted in white. The man he was referring to, slowly turned his head towards the detective.

"You came." John muttered, regarding the other with a careful look.

Sherlock's heart felt like it was being stabbed in various places. The heart, he believed he didn't have, couldn't stand his best and only friend being like that.

"Of course, I came. I told you I'd come." The detective frowned slightly and John merely shrugged.

Seeing that he wouldn't get more from the former soldier, Sherlock swiftly made his way to the bed. He was a bit unsure at first, but then he sat himself beside the good doctor, keeping a little distance between them, so as not to alarm him. He considered asking John a few simple…'normal' questions. But what do people usually say in such situations?

He looked at the man next to him and swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. His flat mate had obviously lost some weight, there were deep, dark circles under his eyes…and he was flexing the fingers of his left hand on his knee. The limp was coming back. And no wonder it was. Every night, this man was going through the war, fighting the demons and experiencing the nightmares of a person he didn't even know. Of one John Watson. Himself. What could Sherlock possibly say to make it all better?

He was a sociopath, yes, but even he knew when words failed. When they were absolutely useless. He couldn't mend his friend…The only person he truly cared about, so what was the use of himself in the first place?

"They're always keeping an eye on me." John said suddenly, snapping the detective from his thoughts.

"Oh…" Sherlock said, a bit taken aback by the declaration. "Well, they are trying to…"

"They think, I want to kill myself." The shorter man blurted out, cutting the other off.

Sherlock blinked a few times at the depressed man beside him. Analyzing, registering…desperately searching for something to say. This was a delicate matter.

"And…" he cleared his throat, trying to keep a neutral posture. "Do you?" Sherlock asked, hoping with every bit of his being that the answer was a 'no'.

"Yes…No! I don't know…maybe." John babbled, burying his face in his hands, not daring to look the other in the eye. But when he noticed the lack of response from the detective, he turned to him.

Not many things could've scared John now. He didn't know who he was…yet he kept having, what seemed like the worst, flashbacks of his life. But right now, when he stared at the face of this man, he realized that he might not be the only one who was suffering. Sherlock Holmes was scandalized. No, he was on the verge of hysterics. His breathing was uneven, his features shaking and eyes those of a madman.

A shiver ran through John's body as he gazed into those stormy blue eyes. They were blazing with fire, that was unlike anything the doctor had ever seen. There was a mixture of anger, fear, worry, regret and hurt. This man was hurt no less than the doctor himself. At the moment John felt a pang of guilt. He didn't need to recognize the detective to understand that what he had said was very selfish and untactful of him.

"Sherlock?" he called the other, weakly. The name was still foreign on his lips, but it always came out with a surprising easiness. Almost naturally.

"You. Will. Do. No. Such. Thing." Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth. John wasn't sure if he should be relieved that the man finally spoke or scared because of _the way _he spoke.

"I-I don't…I wasn't goi-" the good doctor managed a few incoherent words, before an iron grip on his shoulders silenced him dramatically.

"Shut _up _, John…" the detective hissed, staring coldly the other in the eye.

"Sherlock…" he tried again, but the detective was having none of it. He was interrupted by a light shake and a warning glare.

"You…will do no such thing, John Hamish Watson! " Sherlock said dangerously, now angry tears streaming down his pale face.

"You won't! You can't…" _do this to me. John, you wouldn't. You know you're the only thing I have…You wouldn't! John wouldn't!_

The good doctor had no idea what to do…What to say? How to fix this? His heart was aching seeing this dedicated man so insecure. John eventually drew the other close by wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. For a while he just held the detective close, occasionally rubbing soothing circles on the younger man's back.

Sherlock was angry. So angry at himself, at John , at the man who had caused the goddamn trauma…at everyone. But mostly at himself. It was all his fault. Had he got to John's aid quicker…had he been more observant, none of this would've happened.

"Shh…it's not your fault." John whispered softly. _Strange, did he say it out loud?_ It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered.

The good doctor moved back slightly, so that he could look at the detective properly.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He muttered with regret and the taller man whimpered under John's sincere gaze.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you." He continued, embracing the man once again. "You're a good man, Sherlock…I would never want to forget you…" He tried to be comforting, but his own voice was breaking. It's like he knew that the detective was important to him…he could feel that he was someone very special, but he couldn't actually remember.

Sherlock pulled back from the embrace, upon hearing his words, an unreadable expression on his face. He observed the good doctor for a long while, before putting both of his hands on either side of John's face. The detective started stroking gently at his cheeks, with his thumbs. At John's bewildered look, he sighed deeply and responded.

"You are crying…" he said simply, but his voice is wavering and is full of fondness.

**AN: So? Good one? Let me know.**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I was thinking about making a sequel to the last chapter and I kinda came up with this in the process. Not exactly a sequel, nor does it have any direct connection with the last chapter, but I added a bit of fluff…so I guess it makes up for it.:) I still stick with not slash…but this is just too heartwarming.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter 5: Not a machine**

To John, Sherlock Holmes was many things: a madman, a man with the most extraordinary brain, a man that was hiding a pretty good heart, an arrogant git, the reason the army veteran had been able to cope with his past and move on, his best friend. All in all, he was one of the most amazing things that had ever happened in his life, but he could never describe the same consulting detective as an affectionate person. So it was an understanding that he was a bit taken aback when touching and constant displays of care crept into their usual routine as fluently as Sherlock insulting his blog and calling him an idiot.

John noticed it happening after a certain case. Not a particularly complex one, but it had a lot of running around the London and had cost them almost all of their free time.

By the point when they were finally able to detect the location of the criminal, they were both run out of energy. And it all happened in a blur really. John trying to approach the man, the criminal seizing him with a swift movement of an arm and pulling out a dagger. Fortunately the whole incident ended there by the arrival of the police and Sherlock knocking the man out when he was not paying enough attention. But it wasn't actually the end of it.

No matter how many times the good doctor made clear that it was fine, that Sherlock couldn't have known about the weapon, it was obvious that the detective still felt responsible for what had happened. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was feeling guilty. And that's when the changes began.

The first time it happened was when John returned home from a rather tiring day at clinic and wished nothing more than a hot cup of tea. However, he soon remembered that they were out of tea and would have gone out to buy some, had the detective not pointed out that he had already bought tea. And Sherlock never bought anything.

When John Watson thought that he could get used to his flat mate's pleasant approvement, a rather large amount of touches was added to their daily basis. The touches didn't include much. Just a squeeze of an arm or taking the other's hand and holding it in his or placing a hand on his shoulder and keeping it there.

Once, when they were sited at Scotland Yard and were listening to Lestrade's explanations, Sherlock reached out, taking his hand and absentmindedly started playing with John's fingers.

The changes were unusual, but John would be lying if he said that he minded much. He was sure that it must've been the guilt that was making Sherlock behave that way. John also knew that his friend needed it more than he himself, so he didn't comment on it. He knew that it must've been a rarity for Sherlock Holmes to be in such a vulnerable state, when he could do nothing to help his only friend.

A few weeks later, the good doctor was once again surprised when the simple handtouches progressed into full attempts of keeping-my-John-as-close-as-possible. But John was less surprised as he found that he really didn't mind those changes half as much as he had thought at first.

So, the next time when Sherlock turned out something touchy-feely, instead of pushing him away and telling him that he was not a child that couldn't take care of himself, John found himself doing the complete opposite.

They were in a cabbie, driving to a crime scene. Sherlock was typing away on his phone with his right hand, when he reached and held John's hand with the other. At first, the army doctor was not sure how to react as most of the times when his friend decided to display some kind of affection, they were not alone. But when the detective gently squeezed his hand, waiting for any kind of assurance that John was there, John was alright, John was safe, he made up his mind. The good doctor squeezed Sherlock's hand in response, as if saying: _'I'm here. I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere.' _He couldn't help, but smile when Sherlock hesitantly started circling John's knuckles with his thumb. John found himself entwining his fingers with the detective's. And when his flat mate turned his attention from the phone and gave him one of his rare smiles, John couldn't care less if it was considered platonic or not.

**AN: I hope you are satisfied with this tiny bit slashy but not entirely , sweet fic.;) Reviews are very much appreciated. **


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